


never want anyone (but you by my side)

by tsumego



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Affectionate Teasing, Getting Together, M/M, NHL Record Setting, Praise Kink, light-hearted sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6244372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsumego/pseuds/tsumego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hockey players function in a delicate balance of hard work and rampant superstition. On the brink of breaking the record for “Most Goals Scored by a Russian in the NHL” and sitting on not one, but <i>two</i> disallowed goals for a total of four scoreless games, sneaking into the Verizon Center at 1 a.m. for private shooting practice could almost be considered normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never want anyone (but you by my side)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arrghigiveup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrghigiveup/gifts).



> For **Arrgh** , who was there in the beginning and is the reason it continued beyond a single irrational joke that _"my desire for ovie to get his goal is unreasonable b/c i keep having random "has he scored NOW" thoughts. no, no it is 5am, no one is playing"_
> 
> Infinite thanks and love to **Skye** , who co-wrote this with me and deserves significantly more than 12% of the credit & to **Plu** who beta'd and was a champion hand-holder and cheerleader.

Sometimes things just seem like good ideas at the time and Alex considers impulse control to be something belonging to lesser people. When it’s been three days since he’s had anything like a decent night’s sleep, sneaking into the Verizon Center at 1 a.m. seems like the perfect solution to everything.  Every time he closes his eyes, he’s there in his mind so  _obviously_ it’s basically the same thing as getting in his car and being there in person. And who is going to stop him? He’s just going to shoot pucks into the visitor’s net until he’s got enough goals that everything  _works._

“Most Goals Scored by a Russian in the NHL” was always going to be Alex’s, bad luck injuries aside. But there's a difference between knowing you’re going to break a record and actually breaking it. Alex doesn’t want to just break the record, he wants it now. He wants future generations wondering how he did it so quickly, how young. And now he just feels frustration mounting as it remains just out of reach as the games pile up.

It's not often that he feels the pressure as something that weighs him down rather than spurs him on.  After all, he's the best. But right now he's starting to feel trapped, scoring the same goal over and over without ever getting to move on to the next.  At least Nicky is back to center his line and feed him beautiful passes.

Inspired by that thought, he pulls out his phone and texts a picture to Nicky of the net full of pucks with the caption  **i’m get all goals))))) how many enough?**

Nicky’s return text is nothing but random letters. Immediately followed by  **it doesnt count theres no goalie**  and  **go home and sleep you madman**

Alex grins, moderately surprised that Nicky even answered, but delighted none-the-less. Obviously he wasn’t heading home, he wasn’t half as tired as he needed to be, but Nicky has an excellent point - he needs a goalie to shoot on to do this right.

Holtby’s replies to Alex’s repeated texts are his normal strange mix of perfect grammar and emoji:  **You want me to do WHAT.**  and  **Fuck no, it's nearly one**  and  **Have you finally gone completely crazy**  and  **Does Nicky know about this???**

Frowning, Alex settles in to convincing him that this is important and necessary for the good of the team and also Alex’s beauty sleep. This is a crisis and Holtby isn’t even starting tomorrow. He is  _letting his captain down._

Alex is definitely on the verge of convincing Holtby into driving in when he feels himself being yanked back by the collar. Shouting in alarm, he twists his head back and around to catch a glimpse of Nicky, and lets his guard down enough that his phone winds up in Nicky’s hands before he can even wonder what his mysteriously appearing teammate is grabbing for.

“My phone!”

“You’ve lost phone privileges until after you’ve slept at least eight hours. I was thinking of coming over anyways, but Holtby will actually kill you in your sleep next road trip if you don’t stop texting him. Record or no record, I really don’t need you murdered and Holtby in jail.”

The hour must be catching up to him, because he’s a beat too late to stop Nicky as he turns and starts walking back towards the locker room,  _still with his phone._  Alex grabs his stick and trails after, still wondering what the hell just happened.

He’s still confused and getting more-so when he reaches the locker room and Nicky deftly grabs him by the shoulder pads and positions him so that they’re standing face-to-face. Alex gets a brief glimpse of Nicky’s cranky face and pajamas-and-overcoat combination before Nicky grabs the nape of Alex’s jersey and starts to pull it up and over his head.

“Why are you  _wearing_ all of this. Do you actually have your full set of gear on? That may actually manage to be the most insane part of this entire midnight practice.”

Alex is feeling very unfairly maligned. “Of course wearing full gear! Can’t score my goal without gear - you right though, need goalie too!”

Alex feels Nicky hesitate briefly, before a final yank frees him from the fabric. Nicky’s tone is softer when he murmurs, half to himself, “Can’t score your goal, huh.”

Nicky doesn't move away, instead moving on to Alex's padding underneath. The hands gently tugging on straps and tucked under the edges of the chest pads are a moment of unexpectedly human contact. Alex feels something wild and raw in his chest start to gentle at the touch, resettling.  Nicky appears to come to some conclusion, tilts his head up from where it’s bent near Alex’s sternum to meet his eyes, mouth wryly amused. “I think you’ve scored more than enough. If you’re really worried about things, maybe try something new, like sleep.”

"Only if you’ll sleep WITH me." Alex mutters reflexively, running on fumes and not really filtering himself.

Nicky’s aborted twitch makes him reprocess. Oops, that may have come out more sincere than he would normally prefer. He’s blaming Nicky in general, and Nicky’s hands in specific, for that particular slip.

There is a long silence in which Alex wonders if he could just manage to twist free and drive home half-out of his gear. It’ll all still be there in the morning. Of course, Nicky will also be there in the morning.

Brazening it out it is then.

He pastes his most ridiculous, hopefully pleading look on his face. Nicky narrows his eyes. Alex widens his in return. Nicky breaks first, facepalming with one hand and planting the other squarely over Alex's face to push it away. Laughing and sputtering in protest, distracted by trying to lick Nicky’s palm, Alex almost misses the "Maybe after the game. If you're good."

 _Wait. What!?_ Alex finally pulls Nicky’s hand away from his face to stare incredulously at him. Nicky gives a final brisk pat to his chest and returns the stare with a cool, challenging look before turning around and sauntering away, "Go to sleep, Ovie" tossed flippantly over his shoulder.

The door slams closed on Nicky’s flawless exit, long before Alex manages to put together a response. He mutters rebelliously to himself,  "Sleep better with you. Play better with you."

Pride satisfied, he gives in to good sense and the faint thread of hope that this time he'll sleep instead of staring at his ceiling for hours. He finishes pulling off his gear, drives himself home,  and falls into bed.

What the fuck. Obviously, Nicky wants him to focus on playing the game itself, not milestones or frustrated goals-that-weren't. Just because he knows he's being manipulated, doesn't mean it doesn't work. Alex feels his mind turning over, clicking into gear, trying to imagine the future: how good is good, imagining warm-ups with Nicky, Nicky by his side and scoring, and then-

Definitely not thinking about missed shots and disallowed goals. Not now that Nicky has pretty effectively given him something else to focus on, holy shit. He didn't mean to let that comment slip but there isn't a sliver of regret in him over it. He stares at the ceiling in his bedroom. " _If you're good_ " god, Nicky, of course he said that.

Then -  _maybe_. Ugh, Nicky, such a tease, so subtle and sneaky. Alex rolls and jams his head under the pillow- the possibilities are just overwhelming. But, as tempting as the ideas are, it’s almost 2 a.m. and Alex is finally exhausted. He feels it weighing his limbs down now that the buzzing tense energy has dissipated.  Alex drifts off to thoughts of all the ways and places he can kiss Nicky and sleeps deeper than he has in weeks.

 

The next morning he wakes up and he feels  _rested_  and full of energy, like he can skate all four shifts and run suicides after.  He knows today is one of those days where everything is going to go his way.

Alex’s routines aren’t nearly as strict as some players whose names rhyme with “Bidney” but he definitely still has a preferred pattern to his game days. He makes himself a leisurely breakfast and eats on the couch, cartoons turned up obnoxiously loud. He washes his breakfast dishes and then the dishes from the last three days because he can. He even gathers the clothes strewn across his bedroom floor and throws them in the washing machine. Unfortunately, the stockpile of small chores runs out early, leaving him with not much to do but count the hours on the clock and think.

Last night seems surreal with the distance of sleep, like it happened in some other space, to some other Alexander Ovechkin.  He's eager to see how it plays out.  Maybe Nicky was kidding, not serious. Maybe Alex read it wrong.  Even if he did, it’d be no terrible loss, since it shook him out of his funk. All Alex has ever needed from Nicky are his passes on the ice and his sly smile by his side. He doesn't need the offer to be serious, no.

But he hopes it is.

At long last it’s time to go. Alex whistles on his way out the door, eager to be with his team, find out where he stands with Nicky, and play  _hockey_. He hits nothing but green lights on his way in and saunters into the locker room in record time.  Those who look up at his entrance tense, obviously expecting his lingering foul mood from last night to have carried over to the following morning. Little do they know that Alex is a changed man. The first order of business is to lead with a little distraction by snagging Holtby in a headlock and scolding him for not coming to his Captain's aid last night, loud and showy.  

When he scans the room to gauge the lightening mood, he catches Nicky's gaze. It’s fond and smug and... proprietary. Like he's counting Alex's good humor in his personal tally of today’s accomplishments.

"It's not Holtby's fault that he has the good sense to sleep before a game. I’d think that our Captain should approve, even if he hasn’t got any sense himself.”

Alex releases Holby and deliberately brushes past Nicky on his way to his stall with a flippant, "Don't need good sense, that what I got you for."

He’s smug in reclaiming the last word for just as long as it takes to get their gear on. Passing by on his way out onto the ice, Nicky grips briefly at Alex’s shoulder to shake it. “Have a good game, Ovie,” is all he says, leaning hard on the emphasis of ‘good’.

Alex grins to himself going through the end of his pre-game routine and into warmups. Everyone is cheerfully noisy as he circles the ice, checking in on them. Nicky is off on the side with Wilson and Latta, steadfastly disapproving in the face of whatever poor decision they’re so vigorously defending, likely related to their ongoing attempt to be the first professional athletes with scurvy.  The scene is a familiar one. Nicky can be relied on, even by Alex who makes it a point to stand on his own. Reliable as the assists to his goals, as the A to his C, as his friend and now, maybe, as something else, matching the play he didn’t even intend to make.  He’s looking forward to tonight, goal or no goal, but somehow he’s certain that it’ll come today, that this game is  _it._  


 

When the goal does come, deep in the third, it comes off of Nicky's stick in a beautiful no-look pass right in front of the net. Of course it does. That's just the kind of night it is.  He punches the air, grabs Nicky, right there and waiting, grins into his face. "I'm not good - I'm best," and turns to welcome the world to share in their triumph.   

Teammates swoop in to press in around them both, hands reaching in to clap Alex on the back, the shoulder, the helmet, any part of him that they can reach. He can still see Nicky grinning at him, accepting hugs of his own and it takes a moment before Alex remembers that the game isn't over just because he finally scored. Even if Nicky is smiling at him like they just won game seven in double overtime. Record or no record - they have a game to finish.

The post-game is a whirlwind of media and quotes and congratulations, but in the midst of it all Alex still manages to catch Nicky’s response of "Apparently, I like Russians" to a reporter. Seriously. No one else could get away with that, not even Alex. He has a moment to savor the delighted awe before being caught up again in the glorious locker room mess.

After it quiets and the room empties, he ends up slumped against Nicky, hands in his lap with Nicky’s arm wrapped around him in a companionable embrace, keeping them both upright. Both of them are crashing hard from the adrenaline and Alex might fall asleep right there, on the bench. There isn't anywhere else he'd rather be at this very moment. Especially since anywhere else would require movement and that just isn't happening, his thighs and calves slowly going leaden with post-game exhaustion.

"Got my goal, Nicky."

"You were always going to get it."

"Got it off your assist."

"I know. I was there. "

Nicky's hand drops from its grip on his shoulder and drags slowly down his side in its descent. Alex shudders slightly, as the pressure brings his shirt, damp with cooled sweat, into contact with his skin. Grumbling at the disturbance, Alex lets his eyes droop closed and leans harder on Nicky's shoulder when he moves to stand up, trying to buy a few more moments of peace.

Nicky laughs, low and fond, trying to free himself from Alex's attempts to pin him in place.  "And you were being so good."

Surrendering briefly to immobility, Nicky turns his head, breath warm on Alex’s ear. “If you don't let me get up, I can't bring my car around. And if I don't get my car, we can't go to my house. And my house has a bed. A bed that I like to sleep in - occasionally with other people."

Alex's eyes snap open and he leans back reflexively to try and gauge Nicky’s mood and inadvertently giving Nicky the space he needs to haul himself upright.

"Grab your stuff and meet me at the door."

Alex watches Nicky walk out, stumbling only slightly. Distantly, he wonders if he'll ever manage to be properly annoyed by Nicky’s quirk of walking away from conversations. Watching the door frame Nicky's ass perfectly as it closes, he rather doubts it.

 

Alex isn't sure he remembers getting his things, outside of a vague memory of re-discovering aches and moving out into the cold, and he definitely doesn't remember the ride to Nicky's home. He remembers a guiding arm helping him up the stairs, out of his suit and into bed. And then nothing, until this moment. Blinking awake with his arms wrapped around Nicky's waist, head tucked under his own arm and a leg thrown over Nicky's. Nicky is slumped against the headboard, futzing with his iPad with one hand, and absentmindedly petting Alex's hair with the other. Alex groans and buries his head into Nicky's hip. 

"It's practically nine, you can't possibly want more sleep." Alex can't see it, but he knows Nicky is smiling at him despite the dry tone.

"Not sleepy, Nicky. Can't believe I finally score goal, finally come to your bed - and fall asleep."

“Not surprising, since that’s exactly what I invited you over to do.”

Alex rears back, surprised at how sick the shock of misreading Nicky’s intentions leaves him feeling. Something must show on his face because Nicky immediately drops his iPad off the side of the bed and cradles his jaw with a careful hand.  

“Hey, no, no I’m kidding. Both of us were too gassed last night, but I did mean  _sleep with you_ when I offered.”  

Alex has half a beat to feel embarrassed about how much he’s revealed before Nicky’s hand encourages him to shift into a better position so he can drop a chaste kiss to Alex's forehead.

Alex pouts. That is not a cool badass kiss for the newly-crowned  _leading Russian goal-scorer in NHL hockey_.

Never one to be swayed by Alex’s dramatics, Nicky’s eyes track over his face for a beat before giving in to the smile growing in the corners of his mouth and then he breaks the moment by pinching Alex's side. Alex jolts, reflexively tightening his grip on Nicky who teases, “We can come back to this later. I can't cook you breakfast while I'm still in bed, so you’re going to have to let go of me at some point.”

Alex has a moment of indecision, wondering if he can convince Nicky to skip breakfast in favor of fooling around. His stomach growls loudly, betraying him, and he reluctantly loosens his grip on Nicky's waist, pouting to make sure Nicky knows he's not happy about the necessity of food. Nicky doesn't even have the grace to pretend he didn't hear, just lets out a soft laugh as he slides out of bed and Alex's embrace. Alex is slightly mollified when Nicky ducks back in to bump their foreheads together like he would if they were both suited up and on ice.

 

Down in the kitchen, Nicky reaches into the fridge and pulls out a very large and  _very_ recognizable takeout bag from its depths. Alex narrows his eyes from the counter he’d claimed as his own. “That don’t look like you cook breakfast. Look like you make best cooks in DC do all the work.”

“I’m heating it up using an actual stove. That’s as much cooking as you want me doing and you know it.”

Alex is willing to be magnanimous about the loose interpretation of “cook” when confronted with cool logic, Nicky’s unrestrained grin, and what appears to be two hockey-players-worth of his favorite foods from his favorite brunch location in the city. He zones out for a while, content to watch Nicky move about the small kitchen. As the smell of tea hits his brain, he feels himself wake up a bit and remember Nicky has been with him for at least the past twelve hours- long before he got his goal. Either he got delivery or… “When you buy this?” 

Nicky’s grin goes smirky, even though he doesn’t take his eyes off of the salmon hash-browns he’s heating on the stove. “Picked it up first thing yesterday morning.”

“Fuck.” He hops off the counter and slides into one of the places set at the table. He can’t help poking at the thought. “You know future now?”

“I know you,” Nicky returns, quick and firm.

Alex is relieved that the various bits of food seem to be sufficiently warmed so he can jam half of a hamburger into his mouth rather than reply. Food is serious business, especially when it’s this good. Anyone who fails to accept the awesomeness of hamburgers as a breakfast food has no sense of joy and is also probably not a professional hockey player and thus does not get to have an opinion.

Nicky slides into the breakfast nook across from him and both of them take up the all-consuming task of doing serious damage to the varied dishes and pastries in comfortable silence.

Later, after the gnawing in his stomach is appeased, Alex settles in to properly appreciate the small bowl of strawberries, somehow perfectly ripe despite being so utterly out of season.

As he sits, he gets caught on the details of their breakfast.  Nicky doesn’t like strawberries, because he has strange opinions about seeds and fruit (pits or cores are okay, but never berries). Nicky has also tangled their feet together in a move that Alex is quite frankly jealous of, it was that smooth. Looking around the room only sharpens the vague everyday feeling of fondness, turning it into something settled and weighty and proprietary.  The incongruity of the proper table settings in cloth and silver and pottery contrasted against the takeout boxes and hockey players in the remains of yesterday’s suits eating with hockey player manners is so terribly Nicky it's unbearable.  

Alex gives in to the nagging mischievous impulse and steals some of the few remaining sweet potato fries on the unguarded edge of Nicky’s plate that he has claimed. He pops a few of the stolen fries into his mouth, obnoxiously showy and grinning at the dangerous frown on Nicky’s face.

“I’m get all fries in the name of me, because I’m greatest.” He bites into just the beginning of the final fry and leaves the rest to dangle, taunting by flipping it around with his tongue. No one ever accused hockey players of possessing mature or refined flirting techniques.

“Really.” Nicky stretches across the table, braces himself, stares Alex down, and then  _bites the remaining fry out of his mouth._  Nicky is a grade A asshole and it is glorious. His self-assured triumphant pose is horrible: arms still braced on the table to loom over Alex and chewing determinedly, like a prideful chipmunk. Alex loves it and needs to be kissing this ridiculous, perfect human being right this second.

He pushes up and Nicky’s lips are right there, soft beneath his own, still pursed awkwardly from finishing off the remains of his reclaimed french fry. Satisfied with another impulse properly fulfilled, Alex sits back. For once, he's not certain of the next play in the game.

“You kissed me. You stole my fries and then you kissed me.” Nicky sounds almost as surprised as he looks.

Alex thinks it’s rather unfair to be quite that surprised - he has a long history of stealing both fries and kisses.  Nicky should know better. Also, he’s earned all the fries and kisses on offer because “I’m get my goal.”  

Nicky’s lips twitch. “You did,” he draws out teasingly. 

“I’m be good,” Alex says, licking his lips absently.

“Yes, I suppose you were good.”

Alex grins. “I’m greatest.” Nicky makes a faux-considering face to which the only acceptable answer is obviously a squawk of indignation. “Say I’m greatest, Nicklas.”

And fuck, Alex is in trouble. Nicky draws himself up, puts his shoulders back and...Nicky actually says it.

“You are the greatest.”

Shit.

He’s not even teasing anymore, looks as serious as he does on ice before the puck drops. Alex isn’t sure he’s heard anyone so sincere in his life, the heavy weight of Nicky’s voice leaving no room for equivocation. Something shivers over his nerves, like the moment right before the Olympic finals but bigger, the way he imagines it might feel going into that final game seven.

Nicky steps around the table, hands braced on Alex’s shoulders this time and eyes like a life-sentence. “You  _are_  the greatest. I followed you halfway around the world to play hockey in Russia just because you asked for me and me alone. I dropped everything, I followed you there because there was no one else I’d rather play hockey with. Not in America or Russia  or Sweden, or all of Europe.” He breaks for a breath, deep and shuddering. “When. When we win the Cup, it’s gonna be you and me lifting it, and there has never been a captain who earned it more.”

Alex feels like he’s frozen in his seat, arms and legs and hands tingling like he just got out of an ice bath, and his chest feels strangely tight. He can’t look away from Nicky, can’t find the usual flippant remark he desperately wants to make.

Nicky doesn’t seem bothered by his silence, in fact seems emboldened by it. He leans closer, voice dropping as if he’s sharing a secret, sweet and fierce, “Five Richards trophies I’ve watched you win. You earned the Art Ross one of those years and the Hart three different times, and you deserved to win it every year since you were drafted. You’ve made the Olympic team for Russia every year since you were old enough, and just in case anyone somehow missed that you are the best Russian who’s ever played, last night you broke the NHL record for goals scored by a Russian player.”

Nicky pauses to suck in a breath, but Alex lurches up before he can continue. Their second kiss is a little awkward, too much that Alex wants to say and too few words that exist to say it. He pulls back, tongue flicking out to chase the imagined traces of Nicky. Alex’s gaze flits between Nicky’s lips, parted around soft pants and kiss-swollen, and his eyes, pupils blown wide and focused unwaveringly on Alex.

“Am greatest, yes. But not most patient. Either you stop talking or we move, and you should always talk about me. So,” he loses the thread briefly as Nicky’s tongue darts to wet the corners of his mouth. “So, uh, bed?”

Nicky grins, sharp and hungry and smug. “Bed, definitely.” He pivots on his heel, quick as a play on the rink, and starts to stride away.

Alex isn’t about to be left flat-footed and watching this time. He lunges two steps forward and catches Nicky by throwing both arms around his shoulders and pinning his arms. He can feel Nicky shaking with barely-contained laughter where they’re pressed together. Alex hooks his chin over Nicky’s shoulder, nuzzling at the juncture of his neck, humming in approval when Nicky tips his head to the side to give better access. Follows it up with a playful nip at Nicky’s ear, reveling in the hitch in Nicky’s breath as he grinds their hips together and starts to slide his arms lower.

Nicky’s always heavier than he looks but with the aid of physics and distraction, Alex successfully swings him around, releasing him suddenly and spinning to thunder his way back up the stairs and towards the bedroom, calling backwards over his shoulder, “Am winning again, Nicky. You going to come second now!”

He can hear Nicky spluttering behind him for a moment before he’s pounding up the stairs after Alex, sounding fondly aggravated as he yells, “It’s not winning if you cheat, Ovie!”

“Sorry,” Alex calls, muffled slightly as he strips off his shirt, flinging it haphazardly away. “Don’t speak loser. Maybe you translate?” He lobs his lone sock at Nicky as he bursts through the doorway, laughing as Nicky bats it away like a giant Swedish cat.  He’s pleased to see Nicky’s shirt join the sock where it fell on the floor as Alex finishes wiggling out of his boxers while walking backwards toward the bed, unwilling to miss even a second of Nicky’s striptease for him.

The mattress hits the back of his knees and he lets himself fall backwards onto it, unashamed as he wiggles further onto the bed. “Am on bed. You can talk more now. Tell me how great goal was.” He grins cheekily, throwing in an exaggerated wink because he can and he’s naked and Nicky looks like he wants to eat him whole and life is  _awesome_. Alex feels like the king of the world, like everything is his for the asking. He adds a shimmy, splaying his legs wider as he watches Nicky’s Adam’s apple bob.

Nicky’s mouth snaps shut and he prowls over to where Alex is lying, consuming all of Alex’s focus. He barely hesitates before placing a palm on Alex’s chest, gaze fixed on some middle distance between them. The hand on his chest is light, barely resting on the skin like a caress halted mid-motion, but Alex feels pinned.

“Your hockey is so intense, so filthy sometimes I can’t breathe from watching.” Nicky pauses, drags his hand down the center of Alex’s chest, pets the hair down and leaves shivers in his wake, strokes over his sides, soft mapping touches, finding his way in foreign territory and leaving no inch uncharted.

“It’s amazing and I’m so glad that all anyone asks me about is your hockey, because it means that that’s the only part of you they care about. I’m glad they don’t ask for more when you have so much more to give. No one else in the world is like you, could do what you do. No one else gets how amazing the rest of you is.”

Alex’s gasp is involuntary, from the firm drag of Nicky's thumb over his nipple or the rough scrape of his voice he doesn't know, but his chest is heaving suddenly, desperately pulling air into his lungs.

Fuck. Nicky isn’t going easy on him. Everyone is hot for his hockey, duh. Lots of people have praised Alex’s hockey before, during, and after sex. Well, not so much after. Mostly they praised his dick. But Nicky knows everything, has been by his side for years. No one knows more than Nicky, and no one’s opinion matters more.

Nicky keeps talking, hands everywhere and voice hushed, only pausing to check that Alex is listening, that he’s getting it. There’s no set narrative to Nicky's praise. The only common thread seems to be that it’s all the secret tucked-away things that Alex doesn’t show the media, rarely shows his family or his team. Nicky doesn't limit himself to hockey; he tells Alex how impressive the speed with which he picked up English was, how well he handles the media and the dynamics within the team, how protective he is, of his family and his friends, of his teammates and especially the rookies.

Nicky threads his fingers through Alex's hair, fingers gently scritching, and Alex melts a little more as Nicky smiles, teasing him about his ego and then smoothing it away with more praise: how his ego always makes things better, centers the team, centers Nicky. How Alex has firmly established who he is and then stuck firm, in the face of the media and the changing teams, even over all the years he's been in the league, even in the face of those who would censure him.

Nicky pauses, then leans in, kissing his way up Alex's chest, murmuring between each kiss. Confident. Gentle. Kind. Generous. How his media-dubbed ”selfish” acts have always been the facade hiding all of his most selfless ones, how much Nicky has admired him.

How compelling he is. Every action drawing the eye, the heart, engaging and full of life, a life lived fully.

And then, Nicky reaches his neck, leans in and closes the space between them, forehead to Alex's temple as he shares a secret: Nicky loves how flashy Alex is. He loves the attitude, he loves the hype - and he loves that Alex can own that. And most of all, he loves knowing that everyone who doesn’t matter will miss what makes Alex truly great, just like Alex intends. But never Nicky. He notices, he knows, he’s there and he loves it all.

Alex is on fire, barely even notices the touches as Nicky continues, stunning him with what has been pent up behind his reserve, floodgates dropped and everything pouring out. Alex feels like he's going to come and he can’t even remember if his dick has been touched yet.

He reaches up a hand to Nicky’s cheek, thumbing at the trembling lips, unable to bear the distance Nicky has kept between them, needing to feel him here. The longing in Nicky's voice speaks to more than some passing whim.

Alex hooks an arm around the back of Nicky’s shoulder and draws him down until he’s tucked tight between Alex’s legs, hips locked together. He groans at how good it is, Nicky warm and solid and  _here_ , his hands moving to grasp his hips like somehow he can bridge the space that no longer exists between them. Alex is already so close to the edge that it barely takes Nicky rocking his hips forward and looking at Alex, proud and possessive at once, to send him over the edge to completion.

Alex feels wrecked, heart thundering in his ears, senses overloaded, overwhelmed in the best of ways. It seems impossible for a moment to do more than exist, chest heaving and eyes closed, slowly feeling more present in his own body.

As his breath returns, so does the awareness that he can’t feel Nicky next to him. His eyes pop open and he seeks out Nicky- Nicky who has pulled back, no longer in contact but still covering Alex with his body. He’s frozen, muscles tense but his expression -  eyes wide and stunned,  forehead creased and lips parted -  says that he can't believe what came out of his own mouth.

Alex’s first and foremost emotion is relief, followed by delight. Nicky is just as surprised by this as he is. Really they’re both in the same place, in sync like always.  None of this was anything of what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t anything that wasn’t more than welcome, not if it came from Nicky. They can work everything out whenever, there will be time.

He could try to explain, but, well. Alex has found being straightforward and demonstrative in his affection works best. He grins wide and wolfish as he locks their legs and twists, flipping Nicky to the mattress and giving himself free reign to blanket Nicky with his body.  Alex takes the space of a breath to admire Nicky, the long lines of his body and the returning confidence in his posture as he catches up to Alex’s play. The morning light catches on the fine gold of Nicky’s hair and the pendent hanging in its place around his neck while its pair hangs around Alex’s own neck.

Alex croons, “Oh Nicky, of course I’m best - I have you at my center.  Always best when you with me, on ice and off ice”

The space between them is suddenly too much and he drops himself flush to Nicky, and Alex surges forward into a kiss. When he pulls back to judge, Nicky lets out a theatrical ‘oomph’ in protest, but he seems to understand and the corner of his mouth is curling at the edges, his glance sideways up from under his eyelashes inviting Alex into his humor.

The glint of the pendent catches his eye again, and Alex ducks down to lip at the 19 in gold and diamonds, curl his tongue around the edges and worry at the chain with his lips. Nicky’s hips begin to shift impatiently and Alex reaches down to take him in hand and return the favor in word and deed.

Nicky tries to hide his face in the sheets, against Alex's shoulder, anywhere as Alex details the ways in which he couldn't be half as great as he is if he didn't have Nicky at his side, punctuating each point with a soft kiss to Nicky's pinked cheeks, his fluttering eyelids, his forehead and the tip of his nose and the hollow of his throat, familiar and beloved.

Alex drinks in Nicky’s moans and revels in the short, sharp exhales when he’s done something particularly right. He shifts constantly under Alex’s attentions, hips and arms and head a tangle of restless energy.

Nicky comes on a gasp, one leg braced and his back a perfect arc of tension and Alex does nothing to suppress the flash of greed that arcs through him at the sight - the desire for again, for more, for  _always._ Not a single muscle lax, not even in orgasm -  the tendons in his neck highlighted, abs clenched and thighs so tense Alex thinks he might cramp. After a beat, Nicky inhales a shuddering shaky breath, slowly dropping back onto the mattress. His toes unclench and Alex has never felt so endeared by noticing such a simple movement before. Alex reaches out and smooths his hand up Nicky’s thigh where it’s braced until it too returns to rest.

He stays close while Nicky recovers, thumb rubbing circles on Nicky’s hip bone. A few moments pass before Nicky’s face scrunches up in his “too many people around me in the locker room face” and Alex obligingly rolls off to the side to give Nicky space, leaving both of them starfished across the bed and watching the ceiling - a familiar position at the end of many a drunken night even if typically there were a couple more clothes and fewer orgasms between them. It makes it easy to offer up another confession to the air of the room, and admit “Surprised me a little there Nicky,”

He pairs it with a gesture by reaching over to cover Nicky’s hand with his, and hopes.

Nicky’s reply is a somewhat rueful laugh. “I surprised myself too. I mean, I wasn’t surprised about the whole,” Alex interprets the vague gesture as ‘wanting to bang you, you astounding specimen of manflesh’ which, huh. “but, the rest….”

Alex turns his head and meets Nicky’s eyes as they look at him like he’s a revelation, “Same for me. Last time we surprise each other like this, going on ten years, still good.”

Nicky blinks slowly, processing that and when his eyes open they’ve got the gleeful glint of determination, “We doing this?”

“We’re so doing this.”

Some people more storybook and less awesome probably wouldn’t have followed that up with a fistbump. Those people wouldn’t be Alex and Nicky and therefore really weren’t Alex’s concern at the moment.

Alex is delighted when Nicky tangles their fingers together post-fistbump and makes no move to get up. Neither Alex nor Nicky have any intention of going anywhere soon, and Alex feels himself slipping back into a well-deserved nap buoyed by contented joy. In this moment, with their fingers interlaced, he’s eager to find everything they can win - together.


End file.
